


Crutches

by stepantrofimovic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injured character (minor), Multi, Non-sexual, Phil Coulson has bad days, Power Play, mentions of hand feeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times Phil doesn't think he deserves to be taken care of. Fortunately, Clint and Natasha are there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crutches

**Author's Note:**

> This comes from a weird place -- a waiting room in my local hospital, to be exact. (Don't worry, no one was seriously injured.) I realized where it was going only halfway through.

When Natasha enters his office not long past 11.30 in the morning, Phil Coulson is trying very hard not to burst out yelling at – something, anything, his computer, the filing system that got his access code wrong for the sixth time in a row, himself for not realizing he was trying to file the wrong report anyway, his stupid right foot that won’t stop hurting, the world.

Okay, he might be overreacting a little – but he’s been here for three hours, he’s on his second dose of ibuprofen since he woke up, and nothing, absolutely nothing, seems to be going as it should. The fact that he managed to get injured in the stupidest way imaginable less than twenty-four hours ago is not helping. It really isn’t.

Still, because he’s Agent Coulson (or, at least, he’s trying very hard to be), he sits up behind his desk, nudges his tie into a straight line, and forces himself to greet Natasha properly.

“Good morning, Natasha. How can I help you?”

Natasha cocks an eyebrow at him, seemingly debating whether she’s supposed to waste her time actually answering his question. It’s the kind of expression she usually reserves for Tony Stark. This does not bode well.

“What are you doing here?”

Phil raises an eyebrow of his own (he’s perfected that expression way before he met her, thanks) and spreads his hands, motioning towards the files on his desk.

“Working?”

Natasha sighs and taps her foot on the floor. (This does _not_ bode well.)

“Let me rephrase that. Why are you here, _working_ , when you were cleared from Medical just yesterday with standing orders to rest?”

“I’ve been told not to put too much weight on my foot for a few days.” Phil makes a face at her. He hopes it’s more on the ‘exasperated’ side than the ‘I’m seriously considering face-planting on my desk right now’. “Last time I checked, this does not equal bed rest.”

“You’ve been stabbed.” As usual, Natasha’s unimpressed face could win a gold medal.

“So I hear. Through my foot. With a kitchen knife. There was no lasting damage, and Medical discharged me within two hours.”

“With stitches and orders not to put your weight on your foot until they take those out. Which won’t happen before next week. Before you ask, yes, I spoke to your doctors.”

“They gave me crutches.” Phil points to where the offending objects stand propped against his desk. “I’m using them. Are there any other reasons you came here for?”

Natasha tilts her head to the side. Again, Phil knows that expression. It shouldn’t feel good to know that she’s about to go toe-to-toe with him, but today, it does. As she resumes talking, she gives him one of her best predatory smiles.

“Since you came in this morning, you stood up six times to retrieve things from your filing cabinet. You didn’t even touch your crutches once. How is your foot, Phil? Does it hurt?”

There are two things Phil can do at this point. He can either try his luck at lying or attempt to divert Natasha’s attention towards the obvious implications of what she’s just said. Neither strategy is especially wise, or likely to succeed.

One of the things Phil has learned about himself in his years with Strike Team Delta is that, no matter how trivial the situation, he will never choose to outright lie to Natasha.

“Please explain how, exactly, you know how many times I stood up today.” As he says this, he’s already looking up at the ceiling – because, let’s be real, there’s only one plausible answer to that kind of question when his team is involved.

Sure enough, one of the ceiling tiles is already moving, letting a slightly dusty Clint Barton land on the floor with a muffled grunt.

“Hiya, boss.” Clint’s tone is cocky, but he looks far too serious for Phil’s taste. (If he were honest with himself, Phil would admit that it’s just the kind of serious he needs Clint to be today – but he’s not in that place, not yet.) Of course, if Clint has really been in the vents above his office for the whole morning, he must have noticed not only how many times Phil stood up without his crutches, but also how often he grimaced and cursed under his breath (and, sometimes, not-so-under his breath), as well as the few yelps of pain he didn’t manage to stifle. This, he guesses, justifies the serious look.

Some part of Phil – the same part that got defensive as soon as Natasha entered the room – knows that he should feel ashamed – that, given his line of work, he should not let something so trivial as a foot injury affect him so much. Still, a much more pervasive part of him is already reacting to the fact that his team ( _friends, family_ ) is here, that he’s safe, on much more than a physical level.

So, when both Natasha and Clint raise symmetrical eyebrows at him (Natasha raises her left, Clint his right, because as much as he practices he still hasn’t reached the level of skill required to move both his eyebrows independently), it’s not really much of a surprise that Phil ends up finally answering the unspoken question.

“Not being fast enough to avoid a knife to my foot doesn’t mean I deserve a day off.” The words taste sour as they leave his mouth, but they’re also true, and he knows both Clint and Natasha understand.

Still, they don’t say anything yet.

“I was slow, and I was stupid. I should have seen it coming. Anyway, it’s just a stupid wound that won’t have any consequences whatsoever. So.” He smiles. It’s the flimsiest excuse of a reassuring expression, honestly, but he’s been in pain for hours and he can’t find a reason not to blame himself for being unable to get over it, not right now. “It’s a stupid wound,” he repeats. At the back of his throat, he can taste the tears gathering. He closes his eyes against them.

“You’re still in pain.” This is Clint, calm and straight to the point, his voice Phil’s solid anchor on as many missions as Phil’s voice has been Clint’s.

“Remember the first time I got injured after you took me in?” Natasha, uncharacteristically gentle. Or rather, people would say it’s out of character for her, but Phil has heard this tone often enough that he knows he can trust her on it.

He keeps his eyes shut. If he looks at them, this won’t work. “You were terrified,” he answers. “You ran away from Medical twice. With a chest wound and a concussion.”

“Remember why?”

“In the Red Room, any asset who couldn’t prove their value was killed.”

“And injured assets can’t prove their value.” Clint again, letting things come full circle. Apparently, they’ve decided that Phil needs to hear this spelled out.

Phil nods. He knows that the interrogation is finished. For now. He gets to decide when it will resume, but not if.

“Will you come lie on the couch with us for a while?”

“Yes. Thanks.” He opens his eyes again.

Natasha smiles, or rather quirks her lips upwards. “Later.”

It takes a few moments to move to the couch, since Clint is holding out Phil’s crutches, obviously not intending to let him navigate the office’s empty space without their help. Some more time is spent rearranging the three of them so that everyone is comfortable. In the end, Phil gets to lie with his head on Clint’s lap, while Natasha literally curls herself around Clint’s back, her legs fitting snugly against the armrest on his left side while her head rests close to Phil’s shoulder on his right. It’s her favorite position, and as much as Clint and Phil like to tease her about how cat-like it is, they also know that it makes her unable to move if Clint doesn’t get up first. It’s one of her deepest shows of trust, one they both recognize and cherish.

They stay like that for a while, Clint’s right hand gently carding through Natasha’s hair, while his left cups Phil’s head.

“We will have to move to get lunch, at some point,” Clint observes.

Phil hums. His foot hurts much less, now that he’s holding it raised. He still feels off-kilter, but it doesn’t matter as much now that he’s been allowed to strip away his Agent Coulson persona for a while.

“You’ll better stay here with Natasha. I’ll bring a tray up,” Clint continues. His tone is soothing. “I believe they’re serving apple strudel for dessert today.”

Phil hums again and shifts a little, perking up at the prospect of one of his favorite foods.

“Shhh,” Clint shushes him. “Stay down.” Phil obeys. “We could feed it to you, if you wish.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.” Phil’s voice sounds slightly raspy – probably from the narrowly-avoided crying spell from earlier. The thought reminds him of the reason why Clint and Natasha are having to take care of him today.

“I still don’t think I deserve all this for a stupid foot injury,” he says.

Natasha raises her head a little, looking up at him from the general vicinity of his neck. Her brow is scrunched up in earnestness, though some of it must come from the uncomfortableness of her current position.

“You don’t have to deserve anything, _zaychik_.”

As Phil lies down, surrounded by the comfortable warmth of her and Clint’s body, he believes her.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, you can [find me on tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/).


End file.
